


Be Mine

by Not_You



Series: one only understands the things that one tames [14]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (joking) Shovel Talk, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Clint had to wear real people clothes and he hopes you appreciate it, Collars, Comeplay, Dinner, Dom/sub, Dress Up, F/M, Face-Fucking, Facials, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Public Claiming, Public Display of Affection, Rough Oral Sex, Service Submission, Snowballing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Weddings, gagging, it usually grosses me out but they wanted to, only a little snowballing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time to make things official.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After Budapest (and with a recommendation from Natasha’s therapist) Phil has to foster Natasha. She needs individualized and loving care, and she’s family to Clint. That makes her family to Phil, and he boxes some things up and moves others so that the little storage room is fit for a human to stay in. Natasha spends most of her time in Clint’s room, either sleeping alone in the comfortable bed that smells of Clint and has his battered novels stacked up on the nightstand, improvised bookmarks still in them, or cuddling Clint. She’s starved for physical affection, but the only ‘safe’ source is another trusted submissive. She only touches Phil when she desperately needs a dom’s reassurance, and he tries to just be quietly available for her. 

As Natasha reaches a more even keel, the Black Widow re-emerges. Outside their home, Natasha is imposing and professional, cool and collected and deadly. Phil can finally see how she could have ever passed for a dom. It’s so convincing it makes him a little uncomfortable. He says as much to Clint one day, and Clint’s answer is, “Yeah, uncomfortable in my pants. It’s all hot and wrong and weird.”

“Should I be worried?”

Clint shakes his head, looking a bit sad. “No. She needs a good dom.”

“Way to get serious on me, Barton.” He turns his head to kiss Clint’s temple, both of them leaning on the counter of the fifth-floor break room and sipping their coffee.

“Sorry, sir. I’ll try to think of something appropriately stupid to say.”

“Take your time.”

“So, Natasha says you gave her some money for ice cream.”

Phil almost chokes on his coffee. “I doubt she put it that way.”

“Okay, what she said was, ‘Hey Clint, Coulson told me to find somewhere to be tonight, congratulations,’ but come on, it’s the spirit of the thing.”

“How is the ice cream project going, anyway?” Natasha loves ice cream, and has only had a few flavors, and usually on missions where she couldn’t relax and enjoy it. Clint is introducing her to every single flavor he can find, and the whole thing is just unbearably precious.

“She loves Chunky Monkey, and next time we’re gonna have Banana Split, probably the Häagen-Dazs kind. So, gonna fuck me tonight?” He says it in all wide-eyed disingenuousness, and Phil laughs.

“You are so fucking crass, boy,” he says at last, calming and finishing his coffee, going to the sink to wash the mug.

“And you love me for it, boss.”

“And for a lot of other reasons,” he says, and kisses Clint softly. “And the answer to your question is a resounding ‘maybe.’ Call me if you get held up, we have a dinner reservation for eight.”

“Sure thing, sir,” Clint says, and watches Phil walk away with a pleasing level of intent.

For once in their lives neither of them gets held up, and they’re able to meet at home at seven. Phil has taken Clint out, of course, and long before that has bought him sandwiches and kebabs and those godawful baluts, but tonight is going to be different. It won’t be street food or something at a greasy spoon, but actual Italian at a place with real napkins. Not actually fancy, of course. Company manners give Clint hives, and it would be a betrayal to take him to place with a dress code and floor-trays for subs and leash-hooks under the tables. As it is he asks what to wear, and looks a little dismayed when Phil tells him that a plain and intact t-shirt will probably be a better choice than one of Clint’s many faded ones with torn-off sleeves. Phil laughs and pats his shoulder.

“I swear it’s pretty casual. Look, I’ll go without a tie.” He takes it off and Clint smiles.

“Okay, boss.” He vanishes into his room and comes back with his hair gelled, his eyes lined like a real grown-up sub out for the evening, and actually wearing not only an entire black t-shirt, but crisp jeans that haven’t even _started_ to go at the knees.

“You look great, sweetheart.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, going a bit pink and leading the way outside. Phil takes a deep breath and follows. He drives, because it keeps him from yammering or otherwise giving his tension away, and listens to Clint talk about the baby agents he has been training over the past few weeks. “None ‘em can shoot for shit,” is Clint’s assessment, “but they’re all heart.”

“Now, now, not everyone can be Hawkeye.”

“Yeah, but everyone can at least _try_ to remember the gunslinger’s creed.”

“That’s the one about aiming with your eye, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. The older I get, the more I think that’s born and can’t be made.”

“You might be right.” They luck into a good parking space, which is almost unprecedented in this place and at this this time.

“Coulson magic,” Clint murmurs as they pull in against the curb.

“Thank you, thank you, I’m here all week.”

“You’re booked a hell of lot longer than that, boss,” Clint says, and Phil takes his hand and laces their fingers together.

“Yeah, I am. Come on.” He leads him down the block and into a crowd that makes him glad he called so early. Clint stays close, and meekly follows Phil to their table.

“Are you gonna order for me?” He asks as soon as they’re left alone.

“Do you want me to?”

“Not really.”

“Then I won’t. Don’t worry, if we ever have to go anywhere really upscale, I’ll brief you beforehand.”

“’Cause you’re awesome.”

“I try. Think you could trust me to pick some wine?”

“I liked that Chablis we had that one time, but that’s all I’ve got.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Phil says, pondering the menu and the wine list. He chose Italian so that Clint can at least default to fettuccini Alfredo if all else fails, and the food turns out to be as good as he remembers. They’re both unromantically hungry after a long day, and don’t actually manage much conversation until they’re waiting for dessert.

“So, what’s the occasion?” Clint asks, fiddling with his water glass.

“I don’t need one to take you out, but I guess I do need one for this.”

Clint shrugs. “It just seems logical.” Phil is trying to think of something to say when the waiter saves him. He’s a cute kid, with a plain black collar that’s probably a dress code thing, judging by the rainbow streak in his dark hair. He sets their order down on the table, refills their water, and vanishes. Clint chuckles. “Natasha says good service is invisible.”

“To a certain extent.” Phil takes a deep breath and samples his almond granita. It’s perfect, as far as he can tell in his distraction. Clint is taking childlike joy in his cassata and Phil doesn’t want to interrupt, waiting for him to sample all the different textures and flavors and then to eat about half of it. When he has slowed down and is nibbling a piece of marzipan tinted a delicate green, Phil forces himself to speak. “To answer that earlier question, I brought you here because there’s something I want to ask you.”

“…Are we gonna talk about feelings?”

“I’m afraid so.” Clint sighs, and Phil smiles, standing and stepping out from behind the table, bowing his head and crossing his wrists in front of him in the imaginary manacles that symbolize the submission of even the most dominant personality when it truly loves. “Clint Barton, will you wear and keep my collar?”

Clint makes a little choking noise, and almost falls out of his chair to kneel at Phil’s feet. “Yes,” he whispers, taking Phil’s hand and putting it on the back of his neck, “yes, master.”


	2. Chapter 2

They get a scattering of applause and a free bottle of champagne to take home with them when the staff and their fellow customers realize what’s going on. Clint looks a bit embarrassed, but Phil is going to treasure the memory of his acceptance for the rest of his life. For now he thanks everyone kindly, and hustles Clint out, the dregs of his dessert melting in the glass. 

Clint melts against Phil’s side on the walk back to the car, but pulls away and rests against the door when they get moving. Phil almost feels like he’ll shatter if they touch, so it’s probably for the best. 

Natasha has been as good as her word, and the house is utterly deserted. Phil leads Clint inside, and locks the door behind them, the click loud in the charged silence. “Upstairs, beloved,” Phil says. “Kneel for me at the foot of the bed.”

“Yes, master.” Clint vanishes up the stairs, and Phil pours them each some of the good brandy he keeps for moments like this, carrying it up. Clint is in perfect position, arms crossed behind his back, every line of him beautiful.

“Here, Clint,” Phil says, and offers him a glass. Clint doesn’t reach out, just sways forward, and Phil trembles. He feeds Clint sip after gentle sip, watching in helpless fascination. “God, you’re so beautiful. My beautiful, perfect boy, who I’m going to keep forever.” Clint whines, and gazes up at him, eyes already gone dark and glassy.

“Master, please collar me. Please bind me to you.” It’s another old-fashioned and abject way of speaking, and Phil can’t help a quiet moan, leaning down to kiss Clint’s lips, burning-sweet with brandy. He finishes his own glass in what would be unpardonable haste at any other time. The light buzz of it grounds him a little, and he’s calmer but no less elated when he opens the bedside drawer and pulls out the box. There are various formal words and vows for a time like this, but Phil just takes out the collar, holding the open side to Clint, who just stares for a long moment, and then takes it, leaning into the collar and guiding Phil’s hands to wrap it around his neck. He shudders all over as Phil buckles it, and draws a deep breath, perfect throat perfectly framed.

“Mine,” Is all Phil can say, but it makes Clint groan. Phil drops to the floor and wraps his arms around Clint, dragging him into his lap and kissing him all over. Finally, gasping for breath, he pulls away, and grabs the box again, taking out the ring and offering it to Clint, who beams and slips it onto Phil’s left ring finger.

“Mine,” Clint whispers, and kisses the stone. Phil shivers, and pulls him into another kiss. Deep and rough and wet, it makes Clint keen and buck his hips against Phil. He’s so hard, so desperate and bound up in his jeans. “Help me, master,” he says at last, sounding drugged, weak hands fumbling with Phil’s shirt. Phil hushes him and soothes him, kissing him and holding there, making him breathe to Phil’s rhythm until he’s calm enough for Phil to pull away.

“Onto the bed, dearest.” 

Clint scrambles up and stretches out on his back, whimpering hungrily as Phil leans over him and pulls off his clothes, kissing every piece of revealed skin, murmuring over and over that he loves Clint, because there is absolutely nothing else to be said. Clint whimpers and coos, just a slack and silly bundle of joy, and Phil beams down at him once he’s finally naked. “Feel better?”

“So much better, master,” Clint breathes, legs wrapping around Phil’s waist. “Please… please let me do something for you. Anything you haven’t wanted to ask before because I’m yours and you know I’ll say no if I can’t do it and I know you won’t get mad and please…” He pauses to take a big, shaky breath, and Phil kisses him.

“Want me to be selfish? Use you a bit?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Clint whines, his eyes huge.

Phil chuckles. “All right, then.” He kisses Clint again, and then stands, gesturing for Clint to join him and guiding those shaky hands to his various buttons and zippers. Clint undresses him with a reverence and care that brings tears to Phil’s eyes. He carefully folds each item of clothing and sets in on the chair, creases as neat as Phil would make them himself, and Clint doesn’t fold _anything_. “Such a good boy,” Phil murmurs, stroking Clint’s hair as he kneels to remove Phil’s pants. He shivers, and then laughs softly at the reveal of another pair of Cap-themed underwear.

“Really, master?”

“They’re good luck,” Phil says, smiling down at him.

“Maybe so.” He kisses Phil’s hipbones, and nuzzles his hard cock before helping him step out of the boxer briefs so Clint can fold them, too, with ridiculous and touching care. He pulls Phil’s socks off as well, and presses a kiss to the top of each foot after setting them aside. He doesn’t ask for orders, apparently perfectly content to just kneel where he is and to cover Phil’s legs and hips in kisses, eyes blissfully closed, hands resting on Phil’s thighs.

“Dearest,” Phil says, and doesn’t say anything else for a long time, just stroking Clint, mapping his head and shoulders and arms and hands, all those hard, familiar lines. Clint sighs and leans into him.

“Please use me, master,” Clint breathes, and Phil shudders.

“Give my leg a one-finger poke for yellow, and a slap for red, because you’re not going to be able to talk.”

Clint moans, shuddering as a drop of precome falls from the tip of his cock. “Yes, master.” 

Phil makes him repeat the gestures, and then pushes forward into Clint’s mouth. “Don’t touch yourself, Clint. Keep your hands on me.” Clint moans faintly in assent, squeezing Phil’s thighs as Phil pushes into his mouth. Clint deep-throats well, but usually Phil is careful, and goes slowly. Tonight he fucks Clint’s mouth, making him gag and wheeze and struggle for air. No matter what happens, though, no matter how roughly Phil thrusts or how long he holds Clint down, groaning in ecstasy at the frantic fluttering of his throat, Clint never gives either signal. He swallows frantically around Phil’s cock and barely gives his muscles time to contract and relax when he gags before forcing his way down again. The noise he makes when Phil pulls out at last and uses the collar to hold him back from following will haunt Phil’s wet dreams. 

He looks up beseechingly, lips reddened and puffy, his mouth and chin gleaming with spit. “Do I please you, master?” He rasps, licking his abused lips.

“Fuck,” Phil gasps, not even recognizing his own rough voice, “fuck, there are no words for how much.”

“Good,” Clint says, kissing Phil’s wrist. “I want to keep you beyond words, master. I want to be perfect for you.”

“You are, sweetheart. You always are.”

“Ohh…” Clint shudders and hides his face against Phil’s leg, clinging to him. “Oh, use me master, please use me, I want you to use my mouth to feel good, I just want to make it good for you.” He looks like he’s about to cry, but in the best way.

“I love you so much, Clint. I love you so fucking much, and it’s always good for me. Just touching you, just watching you come, is better than good.” Clint moans and shakes, mouth falling open, tongue shifted forward to cushion his lower teeth. Phil can’t resist, and pushes in again, really letting go this time and cramming himself down Clint’s throat, rough and messy and absolutely perfect. Clint’s eyes roll back in his head and he groans deep in his chest, the sound harsh and deep and full of longing. He melts into Phil, jaw slack as he lets Phil fuck into his mouth over and over. “Where do you want it?” Phil growls at last, nails digging into Clint’s scalp. “You’re going to make me come and I want to give it to you just the right way, because you’re my perfect slut.” He flushes more than he already is when he says it, because he doesn’t actually remember how Clint feels about that kind of name, but Clint mewls and shivers all over, whining softly as Phil pulls out, mouth making a hungry little O.

“My face,” Clint gasps, “come on my face, master, please, please, mark me. I want it, I want it so much, oh, master…”

“Sssshh. You don’t need to beg, baby.” He pushes back into Clint’s mouth, and Clint keens, sucking desperately. Phil rocks along his tongue again and again and again, pushing deeper and then snatching himself out, gripping his cock and stroking out those last few pulses, groaning so deep and so loud that it would be embarrassing if he could bring himself to care. They’ve been busy the last few days, and Phil is a little backed up, moaning as spurt after spurt of white lands on Clint’s beautiful face. Clint makes a high-pitched, piteous, quavering noise, his mouth hanging open to catch a few drops on his tongue. Phil’s knees tremble, and he locks them to keep from falling. Clint whines and quivers, looking so happy that it breaks Phil’s heart with a sharp pain that he wouldn’t trade for anything.

“Master, thank you, thank you for letting me please you because I love it so much, and I love your cock and I love _you_ …” He sniffles and whimpers, eyeliner streaking down his face from tears of emotion and physical ones forced out of him by Phil’s cock.

“I know. I know you do and you’re such a good boy. Onto the bed.”

Clint stretches out on his back, groaning as Phil ranges over him and licks come off of his face, feeding it to him in a series of deep kisses. ‘Master, master I love you so much,” he says softly, and he has never sounded so vulnerable. It makes Phil want to hold him close, to hide Clint’s face until he can get himself together again. He kisses him instead.

“I love you too. I love you so much, my precious boy. And now I want to make you come. What do you want, sweetheart?”

“Anything, master, any way you touch me is good.” Clint’s voice is high and breathy and lost, the tone of a sub made utterly helpless by their love and their need. Phil shudders, and finds the lube, slicking his fingers and working them into Clint. He’s rougher than usual, cramming three fingers into Clint and making him yelp and tremble, reaching down to hold himself open.

Phil fucks Clint until he screams and comes all over himself, and then bathes his sub, loving and cossetting him to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil wakes up late the next morning, feeling lazy and unaccountably good. And then he remembers that Clint agreed to be his last night, and he shudders. He glances over at his sub, still asleep beside him, and smiles. After kissing Clint’s face a few times and enjoying the little noises he makes without waking up, Phil leaves a brief note on the bedside table and slips downstairs, where he finds Natasha sipping a paper cup of coffee.

“Hey, Natasha. Enjoying your drink?”

She smiles, sweet and shy and utterly real. “Yes, sir. I see your ring.”

Phil blushes, starting a pot of coffee. “Always observant. I am honored to be accepted as Clint’s dom.”

She smiles, a little sadly. “That’s good. You’ll be happy together.”

“Do you feel abandoned?”

“No, I just want a dom of my own. I’ll find them eventually.”

Phil smiles, and goes to Natasha, hugging her and kissing her forehead. “You’re always welcome here, princess.”

“Thank you, sir,” she says, leaning into him for a moment before pulling back and demanding to know how and when and where he proposed. During Phil’s recitation of events, Clint wanders down in his jeans and nothing else, blushing in his new collar. Natasha grins at him. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He walks to Phil and wraps around him from behind, sighing contentedly.

“When’s the public ceremony?”

“I like late May. Wanna be my handmaid, Tasha? Master, can Natasha be my handmaid?”

“Of course she can, sweetheart.”

“I would love to be your handmaid, Clint.”

In a traditional wedding, the dom who holds the sub’s collar in trust gives them away. This is usually a parent, or a trusted mentor, or sometimes an organization, such as SHIELD’s holding of collars. If there is no such dom or organization, the sub can choose another sub to accompany them, a handmaid or handboy, someone to help them dress and walk them down the aisle so they don’t have to go alone. The dom has a best dom, who waits with them and keeps them steady. Decades ago, Nick and Phil agreed to serve in this capacity for each other, so that much at least is settled. It takes some deft juggling of schedules to ensure that everyone they need has May 25th off, and a bit more to manage a flight to the little airstrip that’s an easy hike from one of Clint’s favorite waterfalls. After all the aggravation, the timing is exactly right, bugs not out in force yet, undergrowth easy to deal with.

Phil demands actual wedding finery, and Clint submits to being swathed in a purple-grey tailcoat and all the rest and even dress shoes, something he ordinarily only half-jokingly declares a hard limit. Today he lets Natasha dress him like a doll. She smiles up at him, tugging his tie into a symmetrical shape. She says something to him, but Phil is waiting by the makeshift altar and has no idea what it is.

“Relax,” Nick growls, watching the shadows behind the partition hung over a tree branch. “The kid is crazy about you, you’ll be fine.”

Phil chuckles. “Thanks, Marcus.”

“You’re welcome, Cheese.”

He takes Nick’s hand and briefly squeezes it, letting it go as Clint comes up the improvised aisle toward him. It’s traditional for a sub to marry in a blindfold, and Phil has said over and over that Clint does not have to even think of wearing one if he doesn’t want to, that it doesn’t matter. Now he comes to Phil with his eyes bound in black lace. It’s an elegant solution, and Phil’s eyes well up as his sub comes to him, sweet and trusting and so perfectly beautiful. Sitwell is pretending not to cry, and Hill is beaming at them.

Doctor Strange is officiating, and he keeps the ceremony short and sweet, with the traditional vows of obedience and cherishing. Clint’s voice doesn’t waver, and when he drops to his knees to kiss Phil’s ring in front of god and everybody, it’s some of the most graceful Phil has ever seen him, elegant and sure. He looks up at Phil, eyes sparkling behind the lace, and Phil falls in love all over again.

The reception isn’t particularly lavish or large, but there’s plenty of booze, cake, and sandwiches for everyone, and the folding chairs stay upright in the soft loam. There's a general rush of congratulations, and somewhere in it the doctor disappears, but SHIELD is getting used to that.

Phil knows his old friend hasn’t been sleeping very well lately, and smiles to see him slumped in a chair with an obvious lack of any intention of getting up. Natasha passes close by on her way to the ad hoc bar, and Nick calls, “Hey, Romanov. Can I get another while you’re up? Only if it’s no bother.” It’s carefully phrased to sound like one dom speaking to another, but Natasha freezes for a moment. Phil hopes to god she’s not upset, and then she continues on, refilling Nick’s plastic cup as well as her own. She turns back, and goes to Nick, dropping to her knees in front of him, the skirt of her short green dress safe from the ground and one strap slipping off her shoulder as she sets her cup down beside her so she can offer Nick’s drink to him with both hands. He sits up a bit, eyes wide and cheeks dark with a deep blush, and takes it the same way.

“May it please you, sir,” she says quietly, and Nick stammers a moment before tasting it and answering.

“It does, girl. Thank you very much.”

Natasha blushes at that, and bows her head to him, her elegant white neck looking like a swan’s before she gets up and drifts away to hide behind a tree and nurse her own drink. Clint has almost been grafted to Phil’s side this whole time, but he splits off and joins his friend, talking quietly to her. Phil smiles, and sidles up to Nick.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Even more than I thought I would.”

“You know I’ve got that girl’s collar in trust,” Phil teases. “You’ll have to meet my exacting standards.”

“It may be the day of your wedding, but fuck you, Phil.”

Phil just laughs, drunk on a lot more than champagne. “You know you love it.”

“You’re a real bastard, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told. More cake?”

“You know how I feel about cake, Phil.”

Phil does know how he feels about cake, and brings him two pieces. Nick engulfs each one in turn, making noncommittal noises as Phil talks to him. “You’re such a baby sometimes, Nick.”

“Mrrruffleand the horse you rode in on.”

Phil laughs and presses a kiss to Nick’s cheek before going to find his sub.


End file.
